Blinded
by CarsAndTelephones
Summary: Jim Kirk has become like the very one who murdered his father and he's the only one that doesn't see it. A surprising person pulls him out of it. One-shot, contains language and violence.


_AN—This was originally the fourth part of a six part story, but the rest of the story wasn't turning out so well, so I just decided to post this on its own as a one-shot. Much thanks to NewspaperTaxis who did a wonderful job of editing this and also helped me immensely with talking through the characters. I can't thank her enough!_

_Rated T for language and violence._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek or Jim Kirk._

_Please read and review._

**Blinded**

The child stirred feebly in his arms. Still alive. She was still alive. Miraculously. Out of sheer, dumb luck she had survived.

Or maybe it didn't have anything to do with luck. Kirk had to ask himself how a child who had been burnt and maimed and tortured was even close to being considered lucky. He held her tighter as a small, almost inaudible whimper escaped her chapped lips. The tiny sound tore through him the same way a dam breaking or a glacier disintegrating would, only it was infinitely more cataclysmic: at once quiet and thunderous, insignificant and earth-shattering.

He rocked her slightly, whispering at her he knew not what—little murmurings that meant nothing even to his own ears, but he wanted—no, _needed_ to comfort her. He barely even registered when a hand grabbed his shoulder and shook him. From a long way off, he realized that someone was trying to talk to him; to get his attention but he paid it no heed. The only thing that mattered was this child in his arms, several locks of auburn sliding across his arm, the only strands left of what must have once been a full head of thick, dark, beautiful hair.

The sound of his name reached his ears, though it was weird; oddly distorted like he was listening to it from the opposite end of a tunnel. He only reacted when he was forced to as the hand on his shoulder finally succeeded in swinging him roughly around. The craggy face of Bones floated before him, but he couldn't understand what the man was saying to him. The mouth moved, but somehow Kirk couldn't translate.

"Bones," he found himself mumbling as he held out the child in his arms, "Bones… She's still alive. Save her, Bones. She's still breathing. You can still save her…"

Bones stopped whatever it was that he had been saying and looked down at the child. Kirk held her out to him, but the doctor did not move.

"Bones, please," he whispered, "Take her. Please."

"Jim…"

"Take her, come on."

"Jim, she's…"

"Alive, I know, it's a miracle. Take her before she…"

"Jim, I—I can't do anything for her—"

"She's still alive, Bones!"

"It's—it's too late, Jim, I—"

"It's _not_ too late! She's breathing, Bones!

"Jim…"

"Bones! Please!"

"She's gone, Jim… She's—gone… C'mon. C'mere…"

Kirk didn't have a clear idea of what had happened next. He remembered clutching the child's body, remembered being pulled back to the Enterprise, fighting to return to the site of the massacre. The girl had been breathing—she had been _alive_. If he could only reach her—get to her—he could put it right, he could fix it…

After that, he had fought to get out of sickbay. He fought even Bones, but his memory on this subject was all the more fuzzy. Perhaps Bones had gotten him in the neck with a sedative or two… as he was so often prone to do. Nevertheless, it had been two days before Bones let him go back to active duty—with Kirk trying every trick he knew to get out of the insistent doctor's clutches. In the end, it was only the fact that Spock was gone for a month to the Vulcan colony that let Kirk back on the bridge. The Enterprise, Kirk argued, could not function without its Captain _and_ First Officer and he needed to get back to work as soon as possible. So he acted normal, protesting loudly, complaining constantly, but all the while knowing that something inside him had snapped.

Because whenever he closed his eyes he saw the girl. He felt her in his arms. He saw the room of twelve children, dead, massacred. And he felt a rage as he'd never known course through his veins. It consumed him; it became an obsession. He thought of nothing else but the children… and the children's killers. He brooded about it. He spent hours in his captain's chair, silent, thinking, not saying a word.

So he devoted everything he had to finding and hunting down the ship that had been responsible for the slaughter. From all that appeared, it had been a trade deal that had gone south. The crew had been killed instantly and the children aboard had simply been… in the way.

At least that's the way Kirk interpreted it. And it made his blood boil.

By the by, the days progressed into a week, then a second, and by the middle of the third week of searching for the enemy ship, Kirk barely spoke to anyone at all but to give a curt order or to placate the ever worried Bones. During his off hours, he avoided the public places on the ship—the mess hall, the recreation decks, even his own quarters because of the constant visits of Doctor McCoy and a few others among the bridge crew. Always he sought solitude unless he was on active duty, looking for the killers, and when he wasn't on duty, the only thing he thought of was finding them.

So when they finally did find the enemy ship at the end of that third week, Kirk didn't know exactly what to think. After weeks of searching, it had happened at last—and it came as a surprise such that Kirk was a mess of confusion, anger, and hatred.

Out of the muddle of his turmoil of emotion, however, came one coherent thought: _Those bastards deserve to die._

… _and I want to be the one to do it._

The takeover of the ship proved easy. The Enterprise was far superior in weaponry, in tactical strategy, in everything. They had the ship disabled within minutes. Kirk watched with vindictive satisfaction as the Enterprise's torpedoes tore through the other ship as easily as if it were made of glass.

The first thing Kirk was able to remember clearly was Uhura's cautious statement: "Sir, they're hailing us. They surrender. Should I respond?"

And his brusque response of "No."

He had nothing to say to these murderers.

He waited to give the next command, considering it.

…Then he remembered the little girl.

"Mr. Chekov," he barked.

The ensign swiveled in his chair to face the captain, looking apprehensive. "Yes, sir?"

"Fire on that ship."

"But, sir—"

"Fire on that ship, Mr. Chekov, that is a direct order!"

"But sir, if I fire any more, ze ship will be irreparably damaged—zey will lose life support, sir! Zey will all die!"

"Mr. Chekov," Kirk said in a hushed tone, a pain building in his head as he fought to keep the ever-present anger at bay, "I gave you an order."

"Keptin, I—"

"Mr. Chekov, do I need to remind you that the men aboard that ship committed supreme acts of violence? That they murdered not only innocent adults, but twelve unarmed and harmless children as well?"

"No, sir."

"Then what exactly is your problem?"

Chekov looked at Kirk through his huge eyes, but didn't say a word. He looked terrified.

"If you have something to say, Ensign, then say it," Kirk spat contemptuously. "Otherwise, fire on that goddamned ship."

"I—" the kid faltered, "I do not sink—" He stopped, cleared his throat and started again. The words came out in a rush as if getting them out faster would somehow make it less painful. "I cannot participate in zis, Keptin. I vill not kill these men—zey have not stood trial."

"What did you say, Ensign?" said Kirk, rising from his chair and advancing slowly the frightened Russian.

"I—I said… These men deserve a trial. Ve… ve are not executioners… Sir."

"Mr. Chekov," Kirk whispered, "Need I remind you that by disobeying a direct order aboard the bridge of the Enterprise, you are committing mutiny against your captain?"

Chekov got shakily to his feet as Kirk advanced on him further. "Sir," he said, when Kirk was a foot away. "Sir, I do not sink ve should do zis. I vill commit mutiny if I have to sir, but I vill not kill venn I do not have the right."

The bridge had gone deathly still. "Security!" Kirk said into the silence, "Please escort Mr. Chekov to the brig. He can stay there until his impending court marshal. Mr. Sulu, fire on that ship."

But Sulu instead got up and placed himself between the ensign and his captain. "Sir, I think Chekov's right—we shouldn't be doing this. It isn't right." He hesitated before speaking next. "You—you're obsessed, Jim… You have to let it go… Let them come to justice—don't do it with your own hands… it only makes _you_ guilty as well."

From around the bridge, people had gotten up from their posts, but none of them seemed keen on interfering on Kirk's behalf.

"What the _hell_ is this?" Kirk yelled incredulously, backing up to face them all. He stared around at them wildly, swiveling in all directions. "A mutiny turned intervention? Get back to your posts, all of you! _Now!_ Security, I asked you once, don't make me do it again. Escort Mr. Chekov out."

But no one moved. They stared at him, expressions ranging from fear to apprehension to pure and unadulterated shock.

Kirk felt the rage always so close to the surface now bubbling within him like some poisonous acid. Why didn't they understand? Why couldn't they see his desperation? Why couldn't they see the need to act? He looked around at the faces on the bridge, disgusted with them all.

"Did you see what they did?" he asked quietly, his voice shaking with anger ever so slightly. "Did you see those _children?_ Burnt? Bloody? They were just CHILDREN!" Kirk's voice rose with every word as did his fury. "You would have us _give up? _You would have them get away with what they did? You would _let them go_?! THEY TOOK CHILDREN—_CHILDREN—_AND MURDERED THEM AND YOU DON'T EVEN CARE! YOU—ALL OF YOU—ARE FUCKING _WEAK_! YOU'RE COWARDS—_ALL _OF YOU!"

A deafening silence fell across the bridge and Kirk, breathing hard as if he'd sprinted miles, resisted the urge to throw something with all his might at the pristine view screen. His fingers twitched with the barely suppressed desire and he glared around the bridge as if daring anyone to contradict him.

From behind him, a small squeak reached his ears and he turned to see Uhura had stepped forward. She looked stricken and there were tears in her eyes. _Good,_ Kirk thought vindictively_._ He was ready for a fight. "Jim—" Uhura whispered. "Jim, of _course_ it was a h-horrible—_awful_—thing to have happened. And I c-c-can't—I can't even see _why_ they n-n-needed to do it, but… but you're going about this the wrong way and—"

But Uhura got no further as she quailed at the look on Kirk's face. He was utterly disgusted. He turned away from her. She was not even worth his time anymore. She didn't understand. _None_ of them understood. It was starting to look like he would have to go this alone. But if that was the only way it could be, Kirk thought, then fine.

Uhura seemed to sense this thought because she tried again slightly more desperately. "Jim," she said pleadingly, "Don't—_please _don't do this. It's tearing this ship—_your _ ship—apart—it's tearing _you_ apart—"

"YOU THINK I GIVE A FUCK ABOUT THAT?!" he exploded at her, "YOU THINK THAT I CARE ABOUT WHAT THIS IS DOING TO _ME_ WHEN THEY KILLED INNOCENT LIVES?! THEY HAVE TO PAY FOR WHAT THEY'VE DONE AND I WILL STOP AT _NOTHING_ UNTIL THEY ARE COMPLETELY DESTROYED!"

"But that's retribution—it has nothing to do with justice!" Uhura protested.

"_THEN SO BE IT_!" Kirk yelled so loud he could have sworn he'd torn his vocal chords. They didn't see—they couldn't understand—he didn't see how they couldn't understand, as the facts were so blindingly obvious, but if he had to go through them to get what he wanted, then he would. He breathed in hard through his nose trying to collect himself. "Mr. Sulu," he said coldly, his voice rasping, "plot a pursuit course of that ship. Security, this is the last time I'll say it. Please escort Mr. Chekov out."

But still no one moved. An eerie stillness had settled over the bridge and they stood as if blocked for some tragic Shakespearean play.

Then Chekov finally spoke up again, his head up and his eyes wide with fear but he met Kirk's ice blue gaze all the same.

"Sir," he said quietly, his voice carrying nevertheless, "You sound like Keptin Nero."

And with this quiet statement, the innocent ensign brought the world crashing down around Kirk's ears.

Nero.

Nero, the obsessed. Nero who stood for cruelty and revenge and rage. Nero, the utterly insane. James T. Kirk and the crazed Romulan did not belong on even remotely the same plane so different were they: one dedicated to the good fight, the other to merciless vengeance with a gaping chasm in between, a chasm that could not be bridged.

But apparently not so.

Kirk stumbled backwards as if he had been shoved hard in the chest and his knees hit the captain's chair. He fell into it and gripped the arms as waves of shock washed over him. His mind had gone numb and he sat staring blankly before him, seeing but not seeing and barely registering that his hands trembled from their place on the chair.

Is this what he had come to? Had he become everything he lived to fight against? Had he become like one who would destroy whole planets simply for revenge? Had he become like the very one who had murdered his own father? He let his head drop into his hands. No one said anything and the silence on the bridge felt thick and oppressively unbreakable.

Slowly, very slowly, Kirk let his shaking hand fall from his face to the arm of the captain's chair. Punching the communicator, he did not raise his head. He could not bring himself to face any of his crew who a moment ago he had looked on with revulsion. "Lieutenant Commander Scott," he rasped and then spoke the words so reminiscent of the same speech Spock had made over this very subject a year ago: over Nero. "I hereby relinquish my command of this vessel to you on grounds that I am… emotionally compromised. Report to the bridge immediately. Kirk out."

He left without even waiting for a response.

Hours later he found himself on a deserted deck of the Enterprise, holed away in an alcove in the wall, desperate to not only escape from his crew but also his own mind. He ran over his actions again and again in his head, and they tortured him just as memories of the destroyed transport ship tortured him.

He saw ghosts of himself cruelly ordering the destruction of the enemy ship mingled with the look on the face of the dying girl he had held in his arms, the color of her hair, the sound of her last whisper.

He saw as the torpedoes fired from the Enterprise ripped the hull of the enemy ship apart—remembered the feeling he had had deep in his gut: a sudden uplifting that he hadn't been able to place at the time.

But he knew it now. He had been happy. He had been happy at the destruction of life.

Again, he saw the burnt bodies of the twelve children in the cargo bay and the rage twisted in his stomach once more. He saw their little bodies, twisted and deformed, covered on the beds in sickbay.

And above the torrent of images, an overlying phrase, a drum beat against his skull, repeated over and over and over again. _What have I become? What have I become? What have I become?_

He could not help the anger that consumed him still. He could not stop the memories. But something new had come into the barrage of emotions: a new, recent memory. Chekov's face swam before his own, innocent and eyes huge… and his voice seemed to reverberate around Kirk's skull like a ball in an ancient twentieth-century arcade game that no longer worked.

"_These men deserve a trial… Ve… ve are not executioners."_

…_We are not executioners._

No. No, it was not his job to deal out death and judgment.

Did the killers of those children deserve death?

Maybe.

But it was not his right to give it to them.

He stared at the floor in front of him contemplating this revelation when a pair of boots flashed past, paused and then doubled back again.

"Jim!" came the familiar call of his name from the owner of the boots.

"Hey, Bones," he said, without looking up.

"You okay?" the doctor growled, a gentleness in his voice underneath the gruffness that Kirk had rarely heard before.

Kirk paused, peering up at his friend. "No," he said, "No, I'm not." He grabbed the man's outstretched hand and hoisted himself up. "But I will be."

McCoy clapped him on the back uttering a quick "C'mon," and they made their way down the hall together, side by side.

"Hey," Kirk muttered to his friend, "Remind me to thank Chekov later, okay?"


End file.
